


keeping the stars apart

by unpossible



Series: Building Something [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blanket Permission, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post Season/Series 02, Rebuilding the Hale House, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:39:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpossible/pseuds/unpossible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek watches that sharp brain come fully online.<br/>“Oh God,” Stiles says, and now he smells of embarrassment. “Fuck. I just- did I just have a fucking panic attack in front of <em>Jackson?”</em><br/>“It’s okay,” he says simply.<br/>“Really. Is it.” Stiles sighs without looking up. “Well. At least I wasn’t naked.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful Piscaria consented to beta this monster for me, and despite our mutual email!fails we got there in the end. Any remaining mistakes are totally down to me.
> 
> This is going to be a long-haul kind of 'verse. I mean, I have college!Stiles scenes written, okay? And, ahem, I apologize but so far there's no actual sex. This may change.

 

 

Derek will never know why it happened that day. Probably Stiles will never be able to explain it either.

It’s all good, it’s fine. The pack are roughhousing on the lawn outside the house while inside, Derek keeps going with the repairs. They help, occasionally, but some parts of the house are just – they’re _his_ to deal with, and some part of him can’t let the others touch his little sister’s room, the wreck of his mother’s piano.

He has to be the one to take it apart. But the rebuilding - yeah. That’ll be for the pack. He’s getting images in his mind already, his old habit of absently sketching while he eats is coming back.

So he’s glancing over, listening with one ear as Isaac and Scott and Jackson and Stiles play some kind of lacrosse-wrestling hybrid they’ve invented, and even that is enough for him to observe their different, clashing reasons for being here.

Derek has spent a lot of years avoiding getting to know people in general. It was a fight he and Laura never settled, despite the connections she made, the unwilling flow-on effect that dragged Derek into her circle of friends. He has to practise every chance he gets, now. He’s learning pack dynamics all over again, learning _this_ pack, and trying to control the wayward thoughts that always lead back to his family and rub the jagged edges of his heart together.

At least Peter isn’t here right now, silently observing and deploying the Ironic Eyebrow of Doom. He’s still searching for traces of Erica and Boyd, and Derek is happy to have his uncle at a distance, for now. The sense of threat from the older man is gone, but. It’ll be a long time before the pack relaxes around Peter.

Derek watches Jackson, still recovering from the bite, learning control. Not terribly well, as he sends Scott slamming into the treeline and Stiles rolls his eyes and fires a ball at the back of Jackson’s head along with some snark.

Isaac, still not quite believing he won’t come to harm here, or anywhere, really. He tackles Stiles with care and they go rolling across the grass, grunting and laughing in equal measure.

Scott, here to make sure Stiles is safe while glaring at Derek in his spare time. He races toward the stick he dropped, tangling Jackson’s legs as he passes and the blonde roars his annoyance, eyes flashing.

And Stiles. Well. That one’s a little harder to figure out. Human. Hasn’t asked for the bite, hasn’t even hinted. The kid rolls to his feet and jogs toward Scott, brushing grass out of his hair.

Stiles wants Scott to be safe, that’s clear. Has a serious hunger to learn more about wolves and creatures, about hunters, and _especially_ about the Argents. And right now, Derek is the best source of information. But Stiles came _without_ Scott, too, at the start. Stiles is curious, insatiably so, but not... it’s not some watching-a-car-crash ugliness. No, the kid has too much heart for that.

Derek glances over at Stiles again, something that’s become ingrained habit, to his dismay. So he sees it all happen.

Jackson, firing a ball at Stiles’ face, way too fast. Scott, pouring on the speed to intercept, wolfing out because his control is for shit, as always. And for one moment the friends are frozen in Derek’s vision.

Stiles, arm outstretched in a futile attempt to fend off the ball. Scott, one hand gripping the ball, the other clutching Stiles’ wrist, holding it right beside Scott’s face. It _should_ have been nothing.

But Stiles whines, a high sharp sound of sudden terror and every one of them flinches. Scott, typically, makes it worse, hand tightening, fangs lengthening as he looks at his friend in confusion. His mouth is hovering over Stiles’ pulse point.

“No,” Derek shouts, and leaps from the first storey window to the ground. “Scott, let go.” The smell of Stiles’ panic is rank, his heartbeat a sudden roar in Derek’s ears. _“Let go now,”_ he says, using the alpha voice when the idiot just freezes despite his best friend’s sudden cry of fear.

Scott’s clawed hand opens, releases Stiles, who staggers back, still whimpering, and falls to the ground. He starts to scrabble back, using hands and feet to get him away away _away_ from whatever it is he’s seeing.

Derek’s vision is red with rage that anything could hurt this kid, this open-hearted kid with the endless stream of babble. Stiles is white-faced, breath hitching in short pants that are doing nothing at all for his heart rate. Derek turns his head to look at Scott, at a pale-faced Jackson and Isaac, frozen in sympathy.

“Go,” he says, making it a command. “An audience isn’t going to help him.”

“It’s a panic attack,” Scott says, still wolfed out, body going on alert against a threat that he can’t fight with tooth and claw.

“I know what it is,” Derek snarls, pacing toward Stiles, “now get out. I’ll take care of this and get him home.”

Scott’s eyes flick to his, automatically ready to argue and Derek stops, turns his head and drops his voice low. When he speaks, he’s growling hard enough to hurt his throat, _“You’re not helping, Scott.”_

“Come on, man,” Jackson says, and shoves Scott hard. “Move.” He hustles the other boys to the car and earns a nod of approval from Derek. This is what he’d sensed when he’d offered the bite, after Peter. That there could be more to the kid than ego and determination.

Jackson’s Porsche peals away in a hurry and Derek drops to his knees beside Stiles, careful to keep his wolf hidden, his face human, especially his eyes.

“Stiles,” he says, voice very calm. “Listen to me, listen to my voice.” God, he hasn’t thought about this in _years_ , how lost you can be in your own mind.

For one horrifying moment it occurs to Derek that perhaps the flashback is of _him_ , of Derek appearing out of nowhere in the woods, invading Stiles’s bedroom uninvited, or slamming his head into a steering wheel, but there’s no extra spike in the erratic heartbeat when he comes closer, and he breathes again.

“Listen,” he says again, and reaches out slowly, cups one hand around Stiles’s calf, the only place he can reach right now. “You’re safe, Stiles. You’re not alone. No-one’s going to hurt you.”

“Don’t want it, not you, no no no _no no_ ,” Stiles is muttering, choppy breaths in between and heart hammering and he’s going to pass out if he keeps going like this.

Derek tightens his hand enough to stop the boy’s backward motion, but nothing more. He keeps talking, low and soft and even, nudging forward in tiny fractions until he’s close enough to lift his other hand to Stiles’s neck, wrapping his palm around the nape, warm and solid.

“I’m here, Stiles, and I won’t let anything hurt you,” he says, surprised at how much he means it.

He leans in, risking getting closer, and moves his hand from Stiles’s leg to his arm. He grips the elbow, avoiding the wrist which is clearly a _bad touch_ place for some reason, and places Stiles’ hand flat on Derek’s chest, over his heart. He knee-walks forward until he’s straddling the kid’s legs, wincing internally at the suggestiveness of the position, but there’s no bad reaction, and some of the tightness in his gut eases. Whatever Stiles is reliving, it’s not _that_ , then.

Closer now, he leans his forehead in against Stiles’ and says, “Feel my heartbeat.” He slides his hand up the kid’s forearm and presses his palm over Stiles’ hand, guiding it onto his own chest. “Feel that? Nice and slow, nice and even. There’s no threat. No-one here but you and me. We’re just breathing, slow and easy. Can you breathe with me, Stiles?”

Stiles is still shaking, heart pounding but he’s stopped the low babble of words and Derek’s gonna assume that means he’s listening. They have to slow down Stiles’ breathing before he passes out, so he leans in, cheek to cheek, hoping a familiar scent will help, and says again, “Breathe with me. Breathe.”

They’re like that for a long time. Gradually Stiles is able to slow his breaths, heartbeat returning to something more normal, the sharp scent of fear fading into the background. Derek eases back a little, not sure how Stiles is going to react to being this close to a werewolf – specifically, _Derek_ , but he keeps their hands pressed to his chest, not ready to give up the contact yet.

Finally, Stiles opens his eyes. He blinks a few times in confusion, eyes darting from Derek’s face to the Jeep, around the clearing, to the house and back to Derek again.

“What-”

He blinks some more and Derek watches that sharp brain come fully online.

“Oh God,” he says, and now Stiles smells of embarrassment. “Fuck. I just- did I just have a fucking _panic attack_ in front of _Jackson?_ ”

Derek is surprised enough that his mouth twitches into a half-grin. In some small corner of his mind he tucks away the thought that Stiles didn’t immediately cringe about Derek in the same way.

“And you- you took care of- _oh my God_ -” the smell of embarrassment flares again, matching the rising tide of red in Stiles’ cheeks as he looks away, bringing a hand up to cover his face. “Fuck my life,” he mumbles, and Derek takes pity on him, lets his hand drop and scoots back enough that he’s at least no longer in Stiles’ lap.

“It’s okay,” he says simply. The adrenaline and the constant stream of words he’s kept up for the last half-hour have worn him out. It’s not emotion that has his hands shaking, it’s physiology, he tells himself firmly.

“Really. Is it.” Stiles sighs without looking up. “Well. At least I wasn’t naked.” There’s a sharp spike of embarrassment/arousal in his scent that Derek ignores, like always. He remembers well enough what it’s like to be a teenage boy, to be a virgin. More than that, he learned a long time ago – at his mother’s knee – that just because you smell something doesn’t make it true or right, or any of your business. People have thoughts all the time, sudden reactions that die away. Doesn’t have to mean anything.

The silence lengthens and Derek keeps his eyes on the house, makes sure to move his head like he’s taking in the whole thing, give the kid no clue just how very much Derek is focused on him right now. He’s thinking back over what he saw, Scott’s fangs next to Stiles’ wrist, _I don’t want it_ , the sharp smell of terror. Stiles is breathing deeply, still staring down at the grass when Derek says, “Peter.”

There’s a hitch in Stiles’ breathing, and he swallows. Then says tiredly, “Yeah.”

“He... offered you the bite.” And doesn’t _that_ get a reaction, right down in Derek’s gut, a slice of pure rage that Peter wanted to sink his teeth into what was rightfully-

_No_.

Stiles jaw clenched and he looked away. “He told me I wanted it.”

And now Derek’s heart is thundering. He draws in a deliberate breath, lets Stiles’ human scent filter through his senses so that he doesn’t do something completely stupid. Stiles wasn’t bitten, wasn’t forced like Scott-

“Did he give you a choice?”

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbles, and yanks some grass out of the ground. “But-”

Derek grinds his teeth for a moment, then makes sure his voice is even. “He’s a master manipulator, Stiles. Whatever he said to you, let it go.”

“Yeah. Except.” He shrugs, shakes his head in that loose way of his, and says, “I don’t know. He. Maybe wasn’t wrong. I mean, it’s a lot, y’know? Just knowing werewolves are real, that was like, _boom_ , mind blown. And then to see Scott wolf out, to meet you, it’s like, all of a sudden my life is a damn movie, shirtless hotties and all-”

There’s another quick bloom of arousal in Stiles’ scent, to match the pink in his cheeks as he hurries on, “-and y’know, family feuds and kidnappings and life and death and of course, in this scenario, I’m the comic-relief-slash-damsel-in-distress, which is just like, my life, of course-”

“You’re not either of those things,” Derek says, though it’s hard to pick one thing to respond to out of the flood of words. He’s not about to admit how relieved he is to hear the return of the stream of consciousness.

Stiles stops. Glances sideways in Derek’s general direction. “Yeah?” He starts to relax, then straightens, because of course nothing is ever simple with Stiles. “No, wait. Am I the dead meat? Damn it, how did I never see this before? I only have one name, am I the generic goddam crew member without a last name who-”

“Stiles.” Derek doesn’t look at him. “ _Galaxy Quest_ is not a guide to life. You’re not the dead meat. You’re the brains.”

“You know _Galaxy Quest_?” Stiles is staring at him, open-mouthed.

Which is Derek’s cue to roll to his feet. “We got cable hooked up to our cave three years ago,” he deadpans. “Laura was addicted to _Hoarders._ ” Then he blinks, freezing. He hasn’t mentioned his sister like that, casually, since he got to Beacon Hills.

Stiles rolls to his feet silently, for once. Head down, he brushes grass off his shorts. When he looks up, Derek’s gut clenches at the recognition, the sympathy there. They look at one another and then Stiles smiles faintly and says, “You know this means you can’t skip out of Trivial Pursuit anymore. No more pretending to be Amish-ly disconnected from pop culture. Pack games night is _so_ happening.”

Derek stands, too, appreciating the attempt at re-establishing normalcy. He knows his part well enough, so he scowls. “Over my rotting corpse, it is.” A kid Stiles’ age won’t know that one-

“And now he quotes _Warlock_!” Stiles gapes. “Oh, it is so _on_.”

“Lets get you home,” he says, cursing himself and trying not to smile.

Stiles, typically, keeps talking at normal volume while Derek jogs over to close up the house. From the safety of the living room, Derek lets himself smile, shoulder slumping a little in relief at hearing the monologue. The drive back to Stiles place in the Jeep goes the same way – Derek silent, Stiles at full throttle. They both know he’s overcompensating, trying to leave the panic attack behind, but it’s harmless enough.

“So, that’s decided, then. This weekend, pack vs humans tournament.”

Derek frowns at that, and Stiles climbs out of the Jeep before he even opens his door. Before he can speak, though, Stiles leans back in, one hand on the roof, eyes fixed carefully on the gearstick.

“Uh. Thanks. For the-” he makes an indeterminate gesture with his free hand and Derek nods jerkily. Stiles straightens before he can speak, and for a moment Derek’s going to let it go. Then he closes his eyes and curses his own cowardice. He climbs out of the Jeep.

“Stiles,” he says, and waits until the kid has slammed his own door shut and they’re staring at each other over the roof. “My two little sisters were human, not wolf. My Dad, too.”

Brown eyes blink at him, uncomprehending, and he sighs. Words. _Always_ he struggles with god-damn _words_.

“Pack is pack. You don’t have to be a wolf to belong.”

It’s worth the effort when he sees the tiny grin curve the corner of Stiles’ mouth. He backs toward the woods at the end of the street and says flatly, “But you do have to bring snacks.”

He’s running before the kid can reply.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, of course, you have a toolkit in your back pocket, of course you do, how is this even my life,” Stiles mutters, “fucking actual hand grenades, who brings hand grenades to a- well, to anything other than a land war in Asia.”

 

 

They’re crawling through the roof cavity of a crappy abandoned house in search of evidence of trolls when it happens. Stiles sneezes, shakes his head and mutters to himself.

“Ducts. Why is it always _ducts_?”

Derek snorts, then catches himself and goes back to his usual scowl. But the grin on Stiles face says _I heard that_.

On Derek’s left, Isaac is frowning, puzzled but content. He doesn’t have the first clue what they’re talking about but he’s automatically pleased at what’s going on here. Derek doesn’t need heightened senses to know that he’s giving off happy vibes, and he shakes his head. He’s losing this war, and sooner or later one of the betas is going to realize what’s going on.

He has to start avoiding Stiles.

Of course, that’s easier said than done.

 

***

 

“Oh geez, oh God,” Stiles swallows hard and takes in a big gulp of air. His mind is pretty much a big monologue of _don’t hurl don’t hurl don’t scream or cry either_. “Derek,” he manages to say through numb lips, “This is, it’s, ohhhmyGodsobad.”

He shifts around, sneakers scrabbling in the leaves and dirt as he tries to get a better look at the alpha’s wounds. His hands are fucking _freezing_.

“It’s fine,” Derek grunts from behind closed eyes. “It’ll heal.”

“Well, yeah, that’s kind of what I’m getting at. It’ll heal like this unless we do something. What am I even saying - unless _I_ do something.” _Oh shit._ He takes a breath. “I’m gonna assume, I mean – healing up with shrapnel inside your wounds would be bad-”

“Then take it _out_ ,” he grates.

“Take it _out_? Like it’s that simple, I mean, sure, McCoy here, _I have my whole fucking surgical kit_ with me, right? I can’t pick _nails_ and shit out of your _skull_ with my bare hands, Derek.” Or possibly, even at all. The urge to vomit is not dying away.

Derek fumbles vaguely at his jeans, then lets out an exhausted breath and slumps sideways. “Leatherman. In my pocket.”

“Oh, of course, you have a toolkit in your back pocket, of course you do, how is this even my _life_ ,” Stiles mutters, “fucking actual hand grenades, who brings _hand grenades_ to a- well, to anything other than a land war in Asia.”

Derek huffs tiredly, not a laugh but it was nice of him to make the effort. The gaping hole in his gut is healing up nicely – life threatening wounds first, yay for werewolf healing logic – which means the relatively shallow wounds from sheltering Stiles are just sluggishly bleeding and probably getting infected as Stiles watches. Derek’s back, shoulders and his head are reminiscent of raw meat, they must hurt like a _bitch_ but the alpha is silent, hitching breaths the only sign of suffering. Somewhere in the woods Stiles can hear the rest of the pack, chasing the last of their attackers away.

“Damn, you are like the poster boy for stoic,” Stiles mutters, dragging attachment after attachment out of the Leatherman, why is this _taking so long?_ He locates what looks like pliers and takes another one of those _don’t hurl_ deep breaths. Time to man up. _You’ve picked up a bone saw with the intent of cutting off an arm, you can do this if you have to_.

“Are you okay,” Derek says.

“Am I.” Stiles stops, “What are you even- _yes_ , I’m okay, you big moron, you don’t remember shielding me with your actual body? I’m _fine_ , you’re the one that’s hurt.”

“You have to be okay, Stiles,” Derek says, and that’s about the point Stiles realizes the alpha’s barely conscious anymore, just mumbling really, no idea of what he’s saying.

“I _am_ okay,” Stiles manages to get out. “You made me be okay, you made sure of it, you overprotective sourwolf. Now hold still.” He bites his lips, “Pretty sure this is gonna hurt.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wasn’t exactly much in the looks department at fifteen, Stiles,” he says.
> 
> “No _way_ ,” he says before he can stop himself.
> 
> “Way,” Derek replies, eyes closing.

 

 

This one was a bad one. Stiles struggles to get his breathing under control, he can’t even begin to prioritize anything beyond that. His face is wet with tears, and probably snot, he’s sweating and shaking like a heroin-junkie going cold turkey. He can only begin to imagine how gross he looks and smells to a wolf.

Well, shit. _Goodbye, dignity_ , he thinks, rueful and angry all at once. As if he had any left, anyway. He’s been cuddled and soothed by an alpha werewolf at least four times now. Scott, Isaac and _Jackson_ have all seen him freak out, even Lydia got an eyeful once. _Fuck my life_ , Stiles thinks, _like I wasn’t enough of a joke already_.

Somehow Derek has never made a big deal out of it. He brings Stiles back down, helps him find his thoughts and his breath again, stays until he’s evened out and then he just leaves. No muss, no fuss. Stiles never thought he’d be grateful for Derek’s silences.

Not this time, though. Whatever the hell he’d done while in the midst of his panic attack, this time he’d really scared the guy. It’s all there in the way Derek’s hand still rests on his brow, the carefully even breathing, the fact that Derek hasn’t moved away yet.

He lets his head thud back against the wall.

“I don’t get why you bother,” he says, and his voice is thick and slow, like his thoughts.

“I mean, God. As if I wasn’t already a liability. A joke. I don’t get why you haven’t just cut me loose.”

He doesn’t normally let this much truth spill out. For all his talking, Stiles is normally very careful with what he says. It all skates along the surface. If he didn’t, he’d be causing explosions right and left.

“You’re not a liability.” Derek says it quietly, calmly, as if it’s an obvious truth. Like he really, _really_ means it.

“Right.”

“You’re not a liability, Stiles.”

“I can’t keep up with any of you physically,” he begins, “and Lydia is plenty smart enough to-”

“You’re not a liability.” Derek’s tone never wavers.

“I can’t even control my own _mind_ ,” he yells suddenly. “What the hell kind of use am I if I can’t even keep my head on straight? I know you’re trying to be nice, Derek, but please, Jesus, just – _don’t_.”

Now Derek lifts his hand, shifts away from Stiles, just slightly. Okay. Okay then. Now let’s have some truth. He braces himself to be cut loose.

“Have you ever lost it when we needed you?”

“What?”

“When there was a crisis, when one of us was in trouble, have you ever let the pack down? Have you ever panicked?”

He just stares.

“Have you?”

“What?”

“You’ve never freaked out, never gone blank, never even waited in the car to keep yourself safe.”

“I. That’s, that’s not-”

“Yes, it _is_. You’re always ready when we need you. Always. This,” Derek gestured, “this is the price you pay for it. Later, when you’re safe, when there’s nothing going wrong, no lives on the line – that’s when your mind and your body take the time to process what you’ve seen and done and experienced.”

Stiles just gawps.

He- he knows that. He does. Kind of. It’s been said before, anyway, though that was in the context of grief and loss rather than pant-shitting fear and torture. But still, it’s similar enough. He swallows. He just hadn’t ever expected to hear it from _Derek Hale_.

He hadn’t expected to feel _understood_.

“How do you-”

“Laura,” Derek says softly before he can finish speaking. “She used to have panic attacks.”

“After the- after?”

“Yeah. But, before, too. She had a lot of anxiety about becoming the alpha. Being good enough. Letting everyone down.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said shakily. “I can see where that- Okay. So you... used to help her.”

Derek’s mouth turns down. “Not really,” he says, low. “I was kind of-”

“Self-obsessed teenager?” Stiles asks, trying for wry. This is not easy for Derek, he knows that.

Derek lifts a shoulder, and Stiles is pretty sure what he’s saying to himself is scales of magnitude harsher than that. “My mother,” he says, even quieter, “used to know just what to do. I- watched, I guess. And after the fire, I tried.”

“I’m sure Laura appreciated it,” Stiles says after a long silence. He swallows. “I know I do.”

Derek shoots him a swift glance, appraising.

“It’s – it’s not just that you help,” he makes himself say it. “It’s that you don’t make me feel like a freak, after.”

“You’re _not_ a freak,” Derek says firmly enough that Stiles feels like he could one day believe it. “You’re processing what’s happened to you.”

“Yeah,” he says unhappily, “but things have happened to all of you, too, and you don’t freak out and cry like a frickin baby about it.”

Derek sighs. “Everyone has their own way, Stiles, and some – like yours – are a lot better than others. Also? None of the wolves have to contemplate injury and death like you do.”

“What’s your way,” he asks, greatly daring.

Derek gives a shake of the head, and Stiles is already shrinking back, sorry that he crossed the line  when he realizes it wasn’t a denial, it was an expression of... regret, maybe?

“You think I was always this angry?” Derek asks. “This- _curt?”_

Stiles watches him for a while, thinking it over. He knew, of course, that the fire must have changed Derek, and obviously it must have given him the dark anger that fuels him. But he’s never really tried to picture the Before Derek from that world, where life was safe and kind.

“Wow,” he says, because he can’t help trying for a light tone when his chest feels tight like this. “Don’t tell me you had looks _and_ charm back then? Because - watch out ladies...” and then he freezes, scared for a moment he has invoked the ghost of Derek’s past but the alpha just shakes his head again, rueful.

“I wasn’t exactly much in the looks department at fifteen, Stiles,” he says.

“No _way_ ,” he says before he can stop himself.

“Way,” Derek replies, eyes closing. One corner of his mouth quirks the tiniest bit. “I was all weird gawky limbs, too thin and-” he hesitates.

“What.”

“Kind of- shy.”

“Get _out_ ,” Stiles says. “ _Bullshit_.” A shy werewolf?

Derek shrugs, easier now. “It’s- it was hard, the wolf part, I mean. As a teenager. It’s a big secret to keep, and I was always scared I’d screw it up somehow. Laura always seemed so in control, she was popular and smart and never worried about anything.”

_Except for those panic attacks_ , Stiles thinks wryly.

“My best friend from elementary school moved away when I started junior high. So I was kind of a loner out of necessity at first and then,” he shrugs again, “I just got used to it.”

_Yeah, sure_ , Stiles thinks, heart aching, _used to it_. Derek must have been ripe pickings for whatever girl sought him out and used him up, back before the fire. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize that Derek’s dating history must have been kind of messy.

Nobody that looks like Derek lives like a monk without reason.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek takes one look at the screen and disappears out the door like his ass is on fire, which leaves Stiles staring and feeling slightly sick. The alpha had looked just like Scott looks when Allison calls – lit up with surprise and recognition. Anticipatory.

 

Derek’s phone rings one Thursday night and everyone stares at each other blankly, as though this is the signal for the end of the universe.

Derek’s phone _never_ rings, not unless it’s one of the pack. But they’re all present and accounted for, sprawled out across the living room in one big puppy pile. Except for Scott, of course, who still only joins in with pack stuff under protest and if there are lives at stake. But it’s not playing _Scotty Doesn’t Know_ , which Stiles may or may not have set as Scott’s ringtone on Derek’s phone, and which may or may not have made the alpha’s lips twitch the first time he heard it, and every time after that.

Derek takes one look at the screen and disappears out the door like his ass is on fire, which leaves Stiles staring and feeling slightly sick. The alpha had looked just like Scott looks when Allison calls – lit up with surprise and recognition. Anticipatory.

He glances at the wolves in the room, wondering if they can hear anything, and when Isaac meets his eyes and then gives a deliberate shrug, knows that Derek’s disappearing act was at least in part to get far enough away that no-one else could hear. Every single person in the room is casting quick looks at Stiles.

Right.

He swallows hard and tries to sail right on past the awkward moment. He’s known for a while now that his attraction to Derek is no secret, not with the super-sniffer werewolf noses all around. Now, apparently, his jealousy of Derek’s secret caller is equally obvious. But jeez, couldn’t they at least _pretend_ they don’t notice? Predator stealth, his _ass_.

So.

“MarioKart?” he offers into the silence, and almost falls over in surprise when Jackson is the one to break the awkward three-second silence that follows.

“You’re going _down_ , Bilinski,” he announces, and does that weird pouty thing with his lips that should only occur on slow-motion shots of runway models. Stiles still hasn’t figured out if the blonde does it on purpose because he thinks it’s attractive or if it’s some kind of nervous tic. Erica tosses her hair over her shoulder and heads upstairs toward her stash of nail polish, Boyd regards the empty bowl of nachos with mournful regret.

Stiles flings himself into the game and carefully doesn’t think about how long it takes for Derek to return. Tonight Stiles is the first to leave, and the looks on everyone’s faces remind him that has, mortifyingly, _never_ happened before. He makes a mental note to be a little less obvious in his lingering from now on, and offers a carefully casual wave to Derek’s confused face as he tears off in the Jeep.

At home that night, he breathes into his pillow, long deep breaths to hold back the ache at the back of his throat. _He’s not mine_ , he tells himself silently. _Never was, never will be_.

 

***

 

He rolls up to Derek’s about a week later with Scott in tow. He’s been making sure not to show up alone, just in case. In case of _something_. Why he’s bothering with the weird avoidance, Stiles has no idea. It’s not like Derek keeps trying to take him aside to talk, or anything. It’s not like there’s anything _to_ explain.

Except for the part where Derek’s getting a guest bedroom ready.

“Whuh?” Stiles says intelligently from the open doorway.

“Why are you...” Scott trails off and glances from Derek to Stiles and then back again. “Is someone sleeping over?”

And _ohmygod_ , Scott, could you _be_ any more embarrassing. Stiles shoots him a death glare and hastily says, “Well, obviously Derek is having, uh. Company.”

Behind him, Lydia snorts. “Oh, way to go, Stiles.”

“Yes, very subtle,” Peter agrees as he steps into the hallway balancing a bedside table in one hand and a lamp in the other. He shoulders past the teenagers, who fade out of his way with varying degrees of suspicion and unease.

“A friend from New York is dropping in,” Derek says, like this happens all the time. Or even once before, _in the history of recorded time_.

He is fluffing pillows. _Derek Hale_. With the fluffing. And the pillows. Stiles is still considering the whole end-of-the-universe scenario. Peter is here, after all. That's got to be worth at least two biblical plagues.

“ _You_ have _friends?”_ Jackson asks without any irony whatsoever.

Derek straightens and gives him a mildly threatening eyebrow.

Jackson blinks, then glances around for support. “No, really,” he says, dogged. “ _You_ have friends?”

“I had a life,” Derek says, shaking a new pillow into a new pillowcase. “Job. Apartment. Friends.”

There’s a pause. “No, _really?”_ Jackson says, and Lydia rolls her eyes and hits him with a spare pillow.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scotty Doesn't Know is a track I heard on a Sterek fanvid. How could I pass that up? Feel free to suggest other personalized ring tones, I will try to incorporate them if I get a chance.
> 
> You may have noticed by now this is turning into a fairly sketchy series of timestamps for the pack. No, I won't be delving into how Erica and Boyd returned, etc etc. I'm not intending to write an alternate Series 3 or anything like that, this is purely indulgent Sterek and pack fic. Spoiler alert: they totally lurve each other.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yay for Derek having visitors. Woo fucking hoo.

 

 

 

Ezra arrives the next day, a New York slice of skinny jeans, funky hat and sharp smile and Stiles swallows hard, gravitating toward the back of the group with a sick kind of feeling in his stomach he can’t even begin to justify.

“ _Mister_ Hale, sir,” Ezra says, letting his eyes run over the house and the woods, taking in the not-yet finished top storey without a word. “No wonder you were always disappearing into Central Park, if this is what you grew up with. I always suspected an allergy to asphalt, myself.”

Derek shrugs and hauls a bag out of the trunk of the Camaro. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs and waves toward the rag-tag group of teenagers waiting on the porch. “Guys, this is Ezra. Ezra, this is the guys.”

Ezra sends him a droll look, not at all intimidated by the way Derek blanks him in return. Stiles thinks miserably that all those years of friendship in New York have given the guy Derek-interpreting-skills that he’d stupidly believed belonged just to the pack. Or just to Stiles, if he's honest. And Ezra doesn’t have the advantage of knowing the werewolf-stuff, which means he earned it the hard way, with time and effort.

Stiles watches the two of them intently, wondering how surly Derek and this socially savvy guy even _met_ , let alone how they fit together. Ezra strides up the stairs and introduces himself, warm and observant and extremely charming. Even Jackson pulls back on his general level of a-hole-ness, perhaps slightly intimidated by the New York Style dripping off the newcomer. Peter is quiet, probably quieter than when he’d been a coma patient, actually. It’s both interesting and worrying, which is business as usual, with Peter.

Stiles shakes hands and says something relatively normal, which garners him curious looks from the rest of the pack, and no particular notice at all from Ezra. Which is exactly what he wanted.

They settle Ezra in his room, and Stiles tries not to stare at the enormous flat portfolio he makes sure to leave in the living room, or the long, slow breath Derek lets out when he sees it. He’s gonna definitely ask questions about _that_ later.

Everyone’s milling around, small-talking when he hears Ezra say quietly to Derek, “Cesare came over for New Year’s, you know. You were definitely missed.”

Derek freezes, and his eyes flick to Stiles for a half-second before he grunts, typically noncommittal. Ezra just nods, like he didn’t expect anything else, but when Derek leads the way into the kitchen he waits a half-beat and sends a thoughtful glance Stiles’ way before he follows.

The kitchen/dining area is chaos, that many people gathered in one place, but it’s not so chaotic that Stiles doesn’t hear when Erica sidles up to Derek and asks archly, “So, who is Cesare?”

Derek’s shoulders stiffen. Stiles can’t see his face but he knows the alpha’s body language. This is that combination of low-level pissed and resigned that he often gets when he can’t talk Stiles out of accompanying them to a fight. After a long moment he says quietly, “A guy I dated in college.”

Erica blinks. Stiles’ hands spasms on the Cheetos packet until it bursts and a handful explode across the table, where Isaac gathers them up, nonchalant. “Cool name,” he says, and crunches into the Cheetos. “Italian, right?”

Derek just nods and turns away. Stiles exchanges a glance with Erica that says no-I-didn’t-know-either-but-of-course-that’s-cool, and then she tosses her hair and turns away, not quite matching Isaac for nonchalance. Stiles backs away, heart beating just a little faster as he pictures Derek with an olive-skinned underwear model, because no way someone like _Derek_ ends up with someone ordinary.

He blows out a slow breath, not sure if he wanted to know that Derek isn’t only about the ladies. It doesn’t particularly help anything.

Half an hour later, Stiles is cooking – a good way to avoid conversation – and the rest of them are ranged around the table and the benches. There’s chatter and laughter and the hollow sound of an empty Pringles tube being tipped over, and then Stiles glances up into Ezra’s interested face. He jolts and damn near drops the wooden spoon he’s been using to stir the risotto.

“Stiles, right?” Ezra swirls his wine in the glass because, y’know, he’s a grown up an all. Stiles has carefully not been watching to see if the guy is checking Derek out, he doesn’t want to know if they were more than friends. Or still are, maybe. _Fuck._

“Right,” he manages, and turns his attention back to the rice.

“The others tell me your father’s the sheriff of this town.”

“Right again.” The rice is coming along, he adds a little more hot stock and reaches for the mushrooms. No dice, unfortunately. Ezra is, apparently, a whiz with a kitchen knife, and nudges Stiles aside companionably. He glances around, nervous without something to do, catches Derek watching him and gets a tiny contact burn from the side of the pan when he spins away.

“That must be interesting for Derek,” Ezra says, out of nowhere.

“Sorry?” Stiles manages, sucking his burned thumb and trying like hell not to notice the way Derek is clearly listening to their conversation, unbeknownst to Ezra. Parmesan. Where the _fuck_ is the parmesan? And God _damn_ it, at that moment Stiles realizes he is cooking Italian food for someone who once upon a time had a _hot Italian boyfriend_ , and this is just a whole new way he is never going to measure up- not that he’s been trying.

“Must be interesting for Derek, trying not to get caught with the underage son of the town Sheriff,” Ezra says, like it’s nothing, like it’s _obvious_.

“ _Hey_ , no,” Stiles half-shouts, drawing considerably more attention than he’d meant to. He waits a beat, glaring at the others until they look away, and then adds, more quietly, “It’s not, uh. Like that. There’s no, um-”

“You mean your dad’s okay with it?”

“What? No! I mean, he’s not anti- oh God, I mean there’s nothing to be okay with. We’re not. There’s nothing. It’s not like that with us. We’re just, uh, me and Derek are. Friends,” he finishes miserably, dying on the inside at knowing Derek is hearing every word. Along with everyone else in the house. Fucking werewolves, man.

Yay for Derek having visitors. Woo fucking hoo.

 _“Oh,”_ Ezra says, blinking at Stiles like he’s some exotic new species at the zoo. _Virginus Perpetuosa_. Last of a dying breed. “Huh.” He glances curiously from Stiles to Derek and back again, and Stiles gives him a sickly half-smile, hoping Ezra can’t tell that if there is ever a genie and a bottle in Stiles’ future, this moment will swiftly be erased from the space-time continuum. “Sorry. My bad.”

“No problem,” Stiles manages, and gives himself props for having managed not to look in Derek’s direction since Ezra started speaking. If he can just manage that all through dinner, too, and then for the rest of Ezra’s week-long visit, life will be _awesome_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who like a visual (who doesn't?), Ezra can be found here http://mynewplaidpants.blogspot.com.au/2013/04/patrick-wilson-six-times.html and here http://www.cinemablend.com/new/Patrick-Wilson-Liv-Tyler-Matt-Bomer-Front-Low-Budget-Sci-Fi-Feature-33788.html
> 
> Also here http://photosmelike.blogspot.com.au/2008/11/patrick-wilson-new-yorker-hearthrob.html  
> Here http://mimg.sulekha.com/patrick-wilson/stills/patrick-wilson-010.jpg  
> and here http://www.last.fm/music/Patrick+Wilson
> 
> I am yet to find this man looking less than good. He somehow even made those huge glasses work in Watchmen.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles rolls his head to one side and watches Ezra nudge Derek’s extremely attractive shoulder. _Hey shoulder_ , he mumbles to himself. _You should be mine, shoulder_. Property of Stiles Stilinski.

On Saturday night, Stiles is drunk out of his mind in the woods. He’s argued his way around the objections of Isaac and Scott, who have been giving him worried looks ever since he tucked the bottle of bourbon under his arm and refused to give it back. He has outlasted Lydia, who got bored when he stopped rhapsodizing about her strawberry blonde hair, and Jackson who got bored when Stiles hit that don’t-give-a-shit-about-your-insults point. They’ve all wandered back to the house. Now it’s just Ezra, Derek and Stiles.

Life is awesome.

Stiles takes another long swig of bourbon and promptly topples backwards off the log he’s been sitting on. He laughs, swats at Derek’s hand when he tries to haul Stiles upright again, and hugs the bottle tighter, eyes closed to communicate his extreme commitment to finishing his bottle. He maybe passes out a little. He can sleep here, it’s fine. His Dad is working the night shift anyway.

Some time later, he half-opens his eyes and lets the quiet conversation filter through. The stars and trees above are very... _spinny_. How are they even doing that?

“So... you collect teenagers now.”

“Not exactly.”

“My friend, you are hip deep in teenage angst, your house is full of tight adolescent bodies, and as far as I can tell, you’re getting nothing out of it. Explain this to an old war buddy. Please.”

“We’ve been over this, Ezra. Black Friday shopping together does not count as war.”

A quiet huff of laughter.

“Hey. C’mon.”

Stiles rolls his head to one side and watches Ezra nudge Derek’s extremely attractive shoulder. _Hey shoulder_ , he mumbles to himself. _You should be mine, shoulder_. Property of Stiles Stilinski.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you’re not alone. Honestly.” There’s a pause, then Ezra says softly, “When I heard about Laura, I thought. Well. I thought you’d be buried in solitude. Living in a cave or starting a fight club or some shit like that.”

“That why you came?”

“One reason.”

Silence again. Stiles thinks maybe Derek is doing that thing he does where he just _looks_ and somehow makes you talk. Ezra finally sighs and adds, “I wanted to say goodbye, I suppose. She was...”

There’s a soft curse and another heavy sigh. “I never really got over her, y’know. And I- it feels like, now I never will.”

Stiles blinks and drags his head sideways to watch Derek’s reaction to this. That’s important somehow, he thinks vaguely, and watches the alpha’s shoulders sag, then Derek sighs and reaches up a hand to rest on Ezra’s nape in a gesture of comfort Stiles recognizes immediately. “I know.”

“Did _she_?”

“I think. Yeah. She knew.”

Ezra just nods, blinking up at the sky. “I don’t get it,” he says, voice suddenly raw. “How can her life be just, fucking, just _over_ like that? _Laura?_ How is that _possible?_ ”

Derek’s head is down now, back tense, struggling. Stiles feels the tears trickle from the corner of his eyes into his hair, and blinks up at the half-moon.

“Sometimes I just can’t believe she’s gone, y’know? I feel like any minute my phone’s going to ring and it’ll be her...” Ezra turns to stare at his friend. “You know?”

“No,” Derek says, and his voice is just fucking terrible to hear. He takes one shuddering breath, then another. And then it’s like a dam bursting. “I know she’s gone. I know, _I know_ because I can’t hear her heartbeat anymore and I can’t smell her hair and her voice is silent and I can feel this fucking hole in me every _fucking_ day-”

“Oh shit,” Ezra chokes, “oh man, _shit_ , I just, Derek, I’m _sorry_ -”

But Derek is silent again, fingers flexing on Ezra’s neck even as the other man flings his arms around the alpha’s waist and they sit for a long time, rocking gently, while Stiles cries up at the moon.

 

* * *

 

In the morning he’s not even sure it happened until he sees Ezra’s eyes. They’re bloodshot and dull, and his smile is four shades dimmer.

Stiles slides onto a stool beside him and gives one elbow-nudge in lieu of speech.

They drink coffee in silence while the rest of the house breakfasts around them and then slowly drift off to Beacon Hills to do their whatever. Even Jackson isn’t tempted to be his usual Morning Douche, not with Derek glowering at everyone and then disappearing back to bed with his cup of coffee.

“So,” Ezra finally says, squinting at the huge windows and their accursed sunlight. “I guess you heard most of that. Last night.”

“Uh.” Stiles blinks down at his mug. “I. Yeah. I think?”

There’s a pause, then he says, too light, “Did you know her? Laura?”

“Oh, I, uh.” Stiles licks his lips, guilt a sick lurch in his belly. No fucking way he can say _I dug up her dead body, well, half of it, anyway_. “Not really, I mean, she was a few years above us at school so I, knew who she was, I guess. And well, Beacon Hills is pretty small, so. But I didn’t-” he winces, “didn’t meet her this time around, so. Not. Not really.”

Ezra just nods. “We got together in college,” he says, from far away. “We were on-again, off-again for almost four years. And then. I don’t know. She just-” he sighs and drops his head. “Just cut me off. A few weeks before she came back here.”

Stiles is silent, running his thumb along the rim of his mug. He has absolutely no idea what to say for this, for something so unfixable.

“I guess I always figured we’d – y’know, figure ourselves out one day. I always thought she’d be the one.”

And oh God this is fucking _awful_. This is like those rare, hideous days when Dad gets drunk on Mom’s birthday or their anniversary and rambles about destiny and mistakes. He glances sideways and Ezra’s face, slack with grief, is way too familiar. There’s no way he can keep silent.

Stiles licks his lips. “It’s just. I mean no question it’s. Awful. And there’s nothing that can ever actually, y’know, fix the fact that,” he swallows hard, “she’s gone. But I guess...” he hesitates, because who the hell is he to try and comfort this guy? Except that he knows, down to the bone, the rage and the sheer un-fucking-fairness of knowing someone is gone that can never be replaced, someone you loved and treasured and _needed_.

He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t know her but I’m guessing... she’d have appreciated you checking in on Derek.” Stiles lifts one shoulder. “And maybe, giving Derek a chance to check up on you, you know?” He hesitates, then adds, “He’s alone too much.”

Ezra’s frozen for a few long moments, then he turns his head to look Stiles over appraisingly.

Stiles flushes and turns his eyes back to his coffee, drinks deep.

“I think maybe you’re right,” Ezra says after an entire ice age has passed. And then, “You’re one hell of a fucking unusual seventeen-year-old, Stiles.”

Stiles blinks and jerks a little on his chair. “Uh, what?”

“I can see why he’s gotten in so deep.”

 _“What?”_ Stiles says again. Because _no_ , he’s- they’ve _had_ this conversation.

“Damn,” Ezra says, shaking his head in admiration. “I never would have believed Derek Hale had this kind of patience in him. He’s always been such a surly bastard, but here he is pining and waiting for his one true love.”

“Uh. _No_. No, that’s not. _No-one_ is _pining_ ,” Stiles says and then winces because okay, maybe he had been drunk and crying in the woods last night.

“Oh, he’s pining all right.” Ezra is calm, utterly certain. “He has reached world champion levels of yearning. I’m pretty sure he’s writing sonnets in his journal with glitter pens and jerking off with his face buried in your hoodie and making a mix-tape of all your favourite songs. I _promise_ you. I’ve seen Derek in casual hook-ups, and I’ve seen him give, literally, an _entire volleyball team_ of people the brush-off, I’ve seen him try his one pathetic attempt at an actual relationship and I’m telling you now, because he never will, that _he is into you_. _You_ , Stiles. Whatever bullshit he may break out to try and convince you otherwise.”

“But.” Stiles stares at him, open-mouthed. “But- but _why_. Why would he- why wouldn’t he just-”

“-bend you over the nearest flat surface?” Ezra finishes wryly, and shrugs. “No idea.”

And Stiles chokes on his coffee because, okay, _virgin_ here, so that’s just not playing fair. He can practically come just from thinking about making out with Derek.

And then the flush hits him, working all the way up his chest to his neck and his face because when he lifts his head there, vaguely reflected in the kitchen window, Stiles can see Derek, lurking in the hallway like the creeper he is.

For one long moment he’s frozen, torn between denial and longing. Then he takes one fast breath.

“He has to know I’m into him,” Stiles says aloud, a bit stunned at his own daring. “There’s no way he doesn’t know.”

“Maybe it’s the age thing?” Ezra offers. He shrugs.

“Yeah he’s probably not keen to go for a record three arrests since he got back,” Stiles says thoughtfully, and Ezra bolts upright.

“He _what?_ Derek was _arrested, twice?”_

“Oh. Um. Yeah. Totally mistakes, though. And,” he winces, “At least one of them might have been my fault, actually?”

“O-kay,” Ezra says slowly, “I can see where maybe that might be holding him back _just_ a little, considering your father was presumably the one with the handcuffs?”

“Yep,” Stiles says miserably, and watches Derek fade silently back down the hallway. He swallows, hard, and drops his eyes to the counter. Yeah, that’s probably a bit of a deterrent, right there. Hell. He is going to _die a virgin_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ezra's comment is a shout out to the Sparkly Pens series which is awesome fanart you should totally check out here http://archiveofourown.org/series/22822
> 
> Also - if there's anyone out there with knowledge of an architecture degree (or any architects, perhaps?) could you please drop me an email? unpossiblea at yahoo dot com dot au


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is a world-class creep and a manipulator. Stiles knows this. But something is different about the man since he returned from the dead, and _how_ is that even a sentence Stiles gets to construct?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to reiterate my thanks to Piscaria, who beta'd not just this part of the story, but the next two sections as well. Yup. There's more.  
> Sheriff hi-jinks coming up, y'all, in Part 2.
> 
> Also, I can't seem to give up my fascination with Peter Hale. He is making a much bigger appearance all of a sudden, esp considering he wasn't in the original version of this story AT ALL. Whatever, brain.
> 
> PLEASE BE WARNED: Discussions of the night of the fire in this section. Possibly triggery.

 

 

The portfolio makes a reappearance on Ezra’s second last day. There had been varying degrees of stunned throughout the pack when Ezra had casually mentioned Derek’s near-finished Bachelors in Architecture. Stiles had been wondering for _months_ how a new floor plan for the Hale house had appeared, seemingly overnight.

It makes sense now, though, the way the spaces flow into one another and reap the best of the sun’s light and warmth, things that only someone familiar with the site would have understood. Makes sense how quickly Stiles’ throwaway remark about a window seat had been incorporated into the design. The way the acoustic materials had just _happened_ to be at commercial (werewolf) levels of soundproofing and the lack of strong chemicals in the finish to protect sensitive werewolf noses.

Derek’s head is bowed, hands clenched between his knees.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” Ezra is saying softly. “Come on. I spoke to Brown, he said they can be flexible, up to a point. You can do all the writing from here, you’d just need to come back for the criticism and to present the model.”

Derek turns his head away, staring blindly through the window into the weak sunshine outside.

“That’s... not who I am now,” he finally says, low.

“Bullshit,” Ezra says, in the same gentle tone. “I know things have changed, Jesus, you _know_ I know that, but you can’t just waste four years of your life, Derek. She’d kick your ass for even thinking about it-”

Derek’s fingers plunge into his hair and Stiles suddenly feels very uncomfortable at overhearing this. He slides one foot back, super slowly, feeling stupid because Derek can probably hear his heartbeat anyway, but he can at least make the effort not to be a creeping eavesdropper.

“I can’t just go back to being that guy, Ezra,” Derek snaps. “I don’t know what the fuck you want from me. Bringing up Cesare and dragging _that_ ,” he waves a hand at the case holding his portfolio, “all the way from New York, _Jesus_ -”

“I don’t want anything from you, dumbass,” Ezra says, voice only slightly stronger than before. Stiles slides further back, holding his breath. “I want something _for_ you. Laura’s not here to push you and if somebody doesn’t you’re going to brood yourself into total isolation.”

“Do I _look_ isolated here?” he waves a hand at the house, at the evidence of all the pack members strewn over various surfaces.

“Not right now,” Ezra says, “but not one of them will stand up to you – okay, well, maybe Stiles  - and don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve chosen to befriend a group who are most, if not all, likely to disappear from your life when they go off to college. You’re setting yourself up to be alone again, Derek, just waiting for people to leave you.”

There’s silence for a moment and Stiles is almost out of earshot when Ezra sighs, “Look, I’m sorry I mentioned Cesare.” Stiles freezes instead of stepping away, and he is a bad, _bad_ person but there’s no way he’s _not_ going to listen to this.

“No you’re not,” Derek says without rancour. “You got exactly what you wanted out of that.”

Ezra gives a weird half-laugh, as if he’s saying, okay, _point_. He takes a long, slow breath and says carefully, “He asked after you, you know. I mean, I think, if-”

“No,” Derek says, and it’s about as final as a word can be.

“Yeah,” Ezra says, low and thoughtful, “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Not that he even deserves a second chance, and that’s without bringing Stiles into the equation.”

“Give me an example of one time you _didn’t_ fucking bring Stiles into the equation,” Derek says, half weary, half annoyed. His head is still cradled in his hands when he says, “Ezra, he’s _seventeen_.”

“He’s a pretty mature seventeen, Derek. And I’m not telling you to deflower him, idiot, I’m saying don’t do that _thing_ you do where you shut him out. I know you have issues, sweet baby Jesus do you have issues, but he’s a good kid, he’s good for you and you could be good for _him_ if you’d be your actual self instead of this surly one-dimensonal asshat you’ve perfected.”

And then a car door slams outside and the conversation is over. Stiles is officially a creepy eavesdropper, not that Derek could ever complain about that, lurking lurker that he is.

 

 

* * *

 

Peter is sitting alone at the back of the house, staring into the woods from the bottom step. Stiles stops, hesitates, and he really, _really_ wants to vanish in a puff of smoke but there’s something about the guy’s body language that won’t let him. Something has been changing since Ezra arrived, and not in a murder-y way. Stiles shifts from foot to foot about sixteen times and then sighs.

He walks across the porch and leans a hip on the railing.

“Everyone’s in town,” Peter says without looking up. “I’m not sure when they’ll be back.”

Stiles nods. Doesn’t move.

“Are you voluntarily spending time with me, Stiles?” Peter asks, mocking. “This is a new and disturbing development.”

“You’re telling me,” Stiles mutters, then sighs again and drops down to sit on the top step. This part of the house still looks like crap, Derek and Peter have mostly concentrated on structural repairs and then the living areas. That all seemed to happen in a burst, they’re moving more slowly now, consulting the rest of the pack on preferences, special requests.

“Are.” The words stick in his throat. He swallows hard and forces them out. “Are you okay?”

Peter is a world-class creep and a manipulator. Stiles knows this. But something is different about the man since he returned from the dead, and _how_ is that even a sentence Stiles gets to construct?

“Laura loved him,” Peter says.

Stiles blinks, trying to parse this. “Ezra.”

Peter nods. There’s silence.

Really fucking _awkward_ silence.

Stiles just waits. Peter keeps his eyes on the forest, breathing regular and even. It almost fools Stiles, until it dawns on him that Peter isn’t relaxed. No-one who’s relaxed runs their body like that, like a machine. No. Peter is so tense his body is rigid, he is regulating every breath he takes, every single blink. There’s nothing wolf-like about him in this moment. He’s terribly, achingly human. Whatever he’s thinking about, it’s churning him up inside, and Stiles finds himself tensing, waiting for the next horrible revelation. It’s not until a long time later that he realizes he wasn’t afraid. Hasn’t been physically afraid of Peter for a long time.

“Some of it is a blur,” Peter finally says. “My own thoughts aren’t particularly clear, from that period of... awakening. I had been locked inside my body, inside my mind for so long- it took a great deal of time for me to understand the difference between dreams and reality. Sometimes I try to comfort myself with the idea that I thought I was dreaming when I fought Laura. It might even be true. That I didn’t know I was about to do something which could not be undone.”

Stiles inhales sharply.

“And then, sometimes. I think I am telling myself that lie to avoid going mad.” He makes an odd, flicking hand gesture, and adds helpfully, “Going mad _again_.”

“Wow,” Stiles says. “Um.” What the fuck do you even _say_ to that?

“But his scent- Ezra. It was still all around Laura when she came back here. She loved him. And now, of course, I can see that he loved her.” Peter swallows. “She might have had a family. Rebuilt the pack. I took that from her, whether it was an accident or not. I destroyed that chance.”

“You wanted revenge,” Stiles says carefully. He can’t forget Kate’s lifeless body, and the future this man stole from Scott, as well. How Peter’s actions turned all of their lives inside out.

“Oh, yes,” he says matter-of-factly. “I wanted revenge and I wanted to make sure the pack survived. And then I killed part of my own pack.” He turns his head, finally, and looks right at Stiles. “Can you explain that to me?”

“Not the best use of logic I’ve ever seen,” Stiles says, and is immediately sorry for the flip reply. He scrubs a hand over his face and drags in a long breath. “Look-”

“The air was thick with mountain ash and wolfsbane,” Peter says softly, eyes turned back to the woods again. “You couldn’t help but breathe it in. Choke on it. The only blessing was, of course, it helped to muffle everyone’s screams. I think anyone would find themselves firmly on the path to madness in the midst of that, listening to _children_ -” he just stops, like there are no words.

Stiles freezes. Peter has never spoken about the actual night of the fire. He shifts, hunches and bites down hard on his lips because he still forgets, sometimes, the epic scale of what Derek and Peter have lost. The least he can do is listen, no matter how hard it is to hear it.

“It was in our eyes, our throats, our ears. It seared into my flesh. I could feel it, burning me so much hotter than any fire could ever do. It was still there, years later. Speck by speck, my cells were regenerating, pushing it out.”

A terrible smile wreathes his face for a moment, then disappears. “Some of the nurses thought I was haunted. They would come by to give me my sponge bath-”

_Ewwww_ , Stiles’ mind supplies automatically.

“-and the cloth would come away smeared with ashes, every time. I could smell it, every day, under my skin.”

O-kay. Best recipe for psychotic madness Stiles has ever heard. Shit. He does _not_ want to understand this man’s mind. Doesn’t want to share his burdens.

“In the end there was only one nurse who would come to my room. I was too creepy for the others.”

Stiles’ heart is thundering. Why the fuck is Peter telling him this?

Peter turns his head again, seems to guess the question in Stiles’ eyes. “I can’t talk about this to Derek. It’s painful enough for him just to see me. To look in the mirror and see the alpha’s eyes he never wanted.”

“So I’m the lucky surrogate?”

A very faint smile touches Peter’s face. “You’re pack, Stiles. You’re _family_. You’re also the best thing to happen to the Hales in six years.”

He stares at Peter, open-mouthed. “What?”

The faint smile deepens for a second. It’s probably the most honest expression Stiles has ever seen on the older man’s face.

“You don’t appreciate your own worth,” he says, and glances away again. “Fortunately for you, you’re surrounded by people who do.”

While Stiles is absorbing that, Peter gets to his feet slowly. He is very still, staring down at his hands, and then he turns to face Stiles, bends his head and exposes his throat in one deliberate move.

Stiles stops breathing at the implications of that.

“I apologize,” Peter says formally. “For offering you the bite. For terrorizing your friends and for harming Lydia. For biting Scott. I wasn’t in my right mind, Stiles, but I can’t take back any of the things I did.”

Stiles licks his lips. “You know that you’re uh, freaking me out, right?”

“Yes,” Peter laughs softly and shakes his head, loses the careful supplication in his body language. “I’m sorry for that, too. If you want me to keep my distance from now on, I will.”

Stiles eyes him warily. But there’s honestly no sense of threat here, and for once, no manipulation that he can see. And that, of course, is what’s so weird.

“Are you going to apologize to Scott, too? To Lydia?”

“I will.”

Stiles hesitates. “To Derek?”

And now Peter is the one who hesitates.

“You should,” Stiles says, suddenly confident. “I think. It would be good for him. To hear you talk, like this, I mean. Not constantly, y’know-”

“Needling him?” Peter supplies with is a wry lift of his brows.

Stiles nods.

“I suppose that’s the least I owe him,” Peter says with a sigh. “Very well, then. Yes. I will apologize to Derek.”

Stiles nods, wondering at the sudden surge of authority he was feeling. It was idiotic for him to think he had the first clue what Derek might want or need from his psycho uncle. And yet.

He _did_.

They settle into silence then, both staring out into the woods and thinking.

They are still sitting silently on the back porch when Derek and Ezra drive up in the Camaro. There’s the sound of two doors closing from the other side of the house and a few seconds later Derek just appears in front of them, far too quickly for someone who was supposed to be maintaining the Ezra’s belief that the Hale family were completely ordinary, completely _human_.

He’d have seen the Jeep. Would have caught Peter’s scent, realized they were alone-

“Stiles,” Derek says, hands clenched into fists as he glances from Peter to Stiles and back again. “Are you-”

He breaks off as Ezra jogs around the corner of the house, eyebrows up to his hairline. “Jeez, Derek,” he says, “that was some Olympic level running, there.”

Stiles glances up into Derek’s face and summons a smile. His heart rate is steady, he knows Derek can hear that. But Derek has witnessed too many of Stiles’ panic attacks to find this scene anything but worrying. “I’m fine,” he says, just as Ezra gets close enough to glimpse Stiles over Derek’s shoulder.

“What exactly was the emerg- _ohh_. Hey Stiles. _”_ There’s a knowing note in the other guy’s voice that has Stiles, ridiculously, blushing. Then he glances up at Derek and finds he’s not the only one.

When Stiles flicks a glance sideways, Peter is shaking his head, smiling the first genuine smile Stiles has ever seen on the wolf’s face. Peter meets Ezra’s gaze and they exchange looks full of meaning. It’s the first time Peter has voluntarily interacted with Ezra since the younger man arrived, and Stiles lets out a long, satisfied breath.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles blinks. _Kate_ was Derek’s first? Kate and Derek were _together_. He staggers a little and ends up leaning against a tree. Jesus God, that has got to be the _worst_ _break-up in recorded history_.

Derek manages to contain his freak-out until Ezra has turned in for the night. The betas have headed into Beacon Hills to do something appropriately teenaged, there is no-one around to hear what is bound to be a prickly and uncomfortable conversation.

“What-” he begins, and Peter raises his hands shoulder-high, turning slowly to face Derek. He nudges the dishwasher door closed with his hip and leans back.

“You heard his heartbeat,” his uncle says, “You had his scent. Did he seem distressed?”

All right. At least they’re not pretending there’s nothing to discuss. Derek eyes Peter, wishing his uncle didn’t leave him feeling so damned off-balance all the time. “What did you say to him,” Derek says. He’s learned the hard way not to engage with Peter’s attempts at redirection.

“I apologized,” Peter says. Like it’s not ridiculous.

“What.”

“I apologized. For offering him the bite, for all of it.”

He can’t make any sense of that statement. Not coming from this version of his uncle. The comic-book villain Peter turned himself into after the fire. “You apologized. To a _human_.”

For a moment Peter’s expression flashes into pure exasperation and Derek tenses, waiting for the emotional slap that’s sure to follow. Then he takes a deep breath and says, “Derek. This is up to you. If you want to pretend Stiles is just another human who happens to know our secret, then I suppose we can resume the game-playing. But if you’re prepared to talk seriously about that boy and his importance to this pack, his importance to _you_ , then we can, perhaps, actually communicate. Your choice.”

Damn it. Derek hates when Peter sounds like that, like he’s a genuine authority figure. Hates more that he can’t help responding to it, the way he would have before the fire, when his favourite uncle would chivvy Derek out of his impatience, or jealousy, or general moodiness.

“Talk, then,” he says, finally.

“I talked to Stiles about Laura,” Peter says, very quietly. “About the fire.”

Derek stares at him, utterly undone.

His old uncle Peter stares back. The man he remembers. Only this time, there are tears shining in his eyes. “I told him how much I wish I could undo my mistakes. Bring back Laura. Release Scott.”

Derek steps back. He shakes his head.

“I told him I wished I could find a way to let you know how sorry I am, Derek. For everything I’ve done to you.”

He stumbles away again, throat closing over. “No,” he says. He can’t think about this. Can’t hear these words. His grief and his pain are all he has, and he can’t-

“I know you’ll never stop hating me,” Peter says. He hasn’t moved but Derek keeps backing away, clutches at the kitchen doorway as his uncle adds, “I know that. But I know you have a chance to be happy, Derek. If you’ll just take it. Take what Stiles is offering you-”

“He’s a _kid_ ,” Derek chokes out, and backs blindly through the living room. “He’ll meet another kid and-”

“He is _utterly_ unique,” Peter returns, implacable. He stops in the doorway, eyes on Derek. “Not just for that quick mind of his, but the _heart_ he carries, that loyalty- would you honestly trust some snot-nosed teenager to recognize any of those qualities? To treat Stiles as the precious gift that he is? Do you want to stand by and watch undeserving others teach him how capricious the world can be?”

Derek shoves the front door of the house open, then, turns and runs, _damn_ his werewolf hearing because he can’t drown out Peter’s voice, calm and reasoned as he says, “Believe it or not, you can make him happy, too, Derek. You might be the only one who _can._ ”

 

***

 

Stiles waits until Ezra leaves before he tries approaching Derek. It’s cowardly, maybe, though he prefers to think of it as _strategic_. Also, Derek deserves the uninterrupted time with his friend. It’s good for him to have someone outside the pack, Stiles thinks. He hasn’t forgotten the way Ezra had said _just waiting for people to leave you_.

Ezra takes over Stiles’ phone the night before he leaves and programs in his number and email. He doesn’t bring up the _he’s totally pining for you_ topic again, but when he hugs Stiles goodbye he says softly, “Don’t let him glower you into submission, okay? At least try for what you want.”

“I promise,” Stiles says.

He means it.

Derek seems to have been expecting his approach. He’s waiting on the porch when Stiles pulls up after school on Monday and before Stiles can kill the engine Derek is there, climbing into the passenger seat.

“Uh-” Stiles says.

“Head for the woods,” Derek says without looking at him, and Stiles does, drives in silence with an odd feeling of nostalgia for those first few months when Scott was a new werewolf and Derek was the surly asshole that Stiles kept dreaming of, no matter how hard he tried to stop.

Maybe it’s those memories that guide him to the same spot he’d parked in the night he and Scott had ventured into the woods. Derek climbs out, Stiles follows, heart starting to beat faster. They have privacy from the rest of the pack, which tells Stiles everything he needs to know about what they’re going to be discussing. Still, Derek surprises him with his directness.

“Do you know how old I was when I lost my virginity?” he slides his hands into his back pockets and stands side-on to Stiles.

“Uh. No.”

“I was fifteen.” There’s a pause there that feels pretty significant. Then he adds, “Almost the same age you were when I met you.”

“Riiight.”

“And Kate was in her twenties. Like I am.”

Stiles blinks. _Kate_ was Derek’s first? Kate and Derek were _together_. He staggers a little and ends up leaning against a tree. Jesus God, that has got to be the _worst_ _break-up in recorded history_.

“But, but then – what? She found out you were a werewolf and went _completely fucking crazy?”_

“She always knew what I was,” Derek says remotely. He’s staring into the woods. “I was the one who didn’t know what was going on. Who _she_ was.”

Stiles shakes his head, confused. “But, then. If she knew, I mean wh-” the words just dry up. Oh holy God.

Oh no she fucking _didn’t_. Except it’s written all over Derek’s face that she _did_. She cold-bloodedly slept with a fifteen year old virgin as part of a plan to murder his entire family.

He takes a few breaths and tries to get past the shock to what Derek is really telling him. The alpha is staring past Stiles’ shoulder, face like stone and understanding washes over him in a wave.

“Oh, no. Oh _hell_ , no, you are not- _Tell_ me you’re not holding back from me because you think you’re some kind of messed up child-rapist like that psychotic _bitch_.”

“It’s one hell of a co-incidence, don’t you think?”

“No, I _don’t_ think. I don’t think it’s _anything like_ the same situation, are you _kidding me_ with this shit? On what planet is being attracted to someone younger than you the same thing as cold-bloodedly seducing someone _in order to murder their entire family_?”

“Not _just_ someone younger. Being attracted to a sixteen year old virgin.”

“ _Seventeen_. And if that’s the problem I can take care of that,” Stiles says wildly. “I’m pretty sure I could head to Jungle this weekend and pick up some random-”

_“Don’t_ -” Derek grinds out, and it’s a threat and a plea all at once.

Stiles lets out a long breath and clamps his hands down over his head like it will help his brain find a way through the Hale labyrinth of guilt and self-loathing. “Derek,” he says slowly, “is it just the thrill of being the first? I mean, were you wandering around New York all this time deflowering teenagers left, right and center?”

Derek gives him that _you dumbass_ look he’s been missing lately.

“No? Not even once? Not one debutante? No bi-curious freshmen in college? No? Zip? Nada?”

The alpha folds his arms, which is answer enough.

“Then how can you _possibly_ be some kind of predatory wrecker of innocence? Where exactly is the pattern of behaviour, where’s the evidence?” He swallows, hard. “Is it really so very impossible that my charms were simply too much for your wolfy shields? Or that you saw something in me that no-one else ever has?” And maybe his voice cracks a little there, so what? This shit is hard, especially looking at the specimen in front of him and knowing exactly how ordinary Stiles is.

Derek is staring back, this time with some glimmer of warmth. “Stiles,” he says, and shakes his head. “The only reason you haven’t been dating is because you were obsessed with Lydia Martin. I promise you, somewhere at that school more than one person is looking at you-”

“And somewhere else, in fact, _right in front of me_ , is someone who’s already seen me.”

His face is hot, but he steps closer because he wants this, more than he’s ever wanted anything – Lydia, his Jeep, more than he wanted tickets to the first showing of _Iron Man 3_.

“Don’t I get a say in this? You’re not seducing me, Derek, for God’s sake you’ve apparently been resisting this for _months_. If you _were_ like her, if you were some sort of selfish monster you never would have hesitated, God and all the pack knows you could have had me that first year, but you _didn’t_. So unless you actually are hiding an Ultra-Secret Evil Plan™ to,” he waves wildly, “release some kind of deadly poison into the Beacon Hills water supply, I really don’t see what’s stopping us, here.”

“You’re _seventeen_ ,” Derek repeats, helpless, and Stiles takes a breath, calms himself down.

“Which is a perfectly legal age for _dating_ , and people do it every day,” Stiles says gently. “Look. Clearly there’s - baggage here,” he tries to be tactful and a strange expression crosses Derek’s face, “and since I am, as the entire world knows, a virgin, it seems to me that what we have is the perfect situation for _taking it slow_. I’m not suggesting you to fuck me into the ground this minute, Derek-” and then their eyes lock and the world just stops.

“I mean,” Stiles says faintly, and wow, it’s really hot all of a sudden and his throat is dry. “You’re probably not even up for that, right?”

Derek is staring. It’s not dissimilar to his usual do-it-or-I’ll-make-you, and so it takes a while for Stiles to recognise the raw _want_ in it. “Right,” he finally says unconvincingly, and swallows hard.

Yeah. Stiles is having a little trouble breathing.

He finds Derek sexually attractive, _duh_. He also finds water to be wet. But somehow, in all of this, it had never occurred to him that the alpha might be struggling with the same distracting arousal, for _Stiles_. It just seems so... unlikely. Why would anyone, especially Derek, want _Stiles_?

And yet, clearly, he _does_. “Oh my God,” Stiles breathes, because he is a moron. “You want me. You’re totally into me. You’ve been _pining_ for me-”

In the next second he’s wrapped up in super-strong arms. “ _Yeah_ I want you,” Derek half-moans the words out against the skin of Stiles’ throat. “That’s kind of the point.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s all finally happening _to Stiles_ , and what’s more? His significant other is _hot like burning_. Might actually, on a sliding scale, be hotter than _Lydia_. But far more important than any of that? His significant other?
> 
> Is totally into _Stiles_.
> 
>  

 

 

Stiles’ teenage years suddenly burst into fruition, with the promise of hot and heavy make-out sessions that only ever seemed to happen to other people, daydreaming of Derek in class, his phone lighting up with messages that leave him grinning like an idiot and Scott rolling his eyes in exasperation.

 _Suck it up, buddy_ , he tells Scott silently. It’s all finally happening _to Stiles_ , and what’s more? His significant other is _hot like burning_. Might actually, on a sliding scale, be hotter than _Lydia_. But far more important than any of that? His significant other?

Is totally into _Stiles_.

 

 

 

It take weeks to get there, of course. Weeks of awkwardly sneaking kisses in the Hale kitchen, or passive-aggressively enticing Derek through his bedroom window on increasingly flimsy pretexts. But it happens. Slowly, the way Stiles promised. The way Derek seems to need.

And slow is fine. Slow is, it’s good. Y’know. Until it’s just a fucking _tease_.

“Oh, oh, _oh_ my God,” Stiles mumbles, throwing his head side to side. The leather seat of the Camaro sticks to his sweaty skin, and his t-shirt slides off the seat onto the floor to join the regulation black one that was discarded first. “Derek.”

“Stiles,” he rumbles back, and bites lightly at Stiles’ collarbone.

His whole body twitches in response to that voice, the raw want in it. “How long?” the words slip out against his will. He threads his fingers through Derek’s surprisingly soft hair. “How long have you wanted-”

 _“Months,”_ Derek growls, and licks over a nipple, “Last summer, when you climbed out of the lake in those shorts I walked straight into a tree. Peter laughed for _days_.”

“Oh God,” Stiles whines, and can’t help the slow grind of his hips against Derek’s thigh. He slides his hands down Derek’s nape, spreads them over the smooth expanse of those inhumanely perfect shoulders, digs his fingertips in and lets his nails scratch a trail there.

“I kept one of your shirts,” Derek says, the truth tumbling helplessly out, “after the thing with the pixies. I hid it so none of the others would smell it and suspect.”

“I jerked off to you every night for months after the swimming pool,” Stiles confesses and Derek’s hips jerk.

 _“Shit_ , Stiles,” he says, sliding back just a little. He’s panting, open-mouthed.

“No, wait,” Stiles said, making grabby hands. “Don’t-”

“We have to slow down,” Derek says, husky. “Wasn’t that the agreement.”

“Stupid fucking agreement,” Stiles whines, “What kind of _chumps_ would agree to _that?”_

But they disengage slowly, Derek sliding back toward the opposite corner of the backseat. His face is flushed and his eyes are gleaming in the near-dark. He is a perfect erotic mess and Stiles _totally did that_.

“Oh my God,” Stiles says, mouth dry, “how are you even real. This is like getting promoted from the minor leagues straight to the World Series Final.” Yup. He’s resorting to sports metaphors. Derek has melted his brain.

Derek’s lips twitch. The flush is receding from his face, and while Stiles’ erection isn’t going away anytime soon, the overwhelming twitchy feeling of urgency and impending orgasm is fading. That’s sad, sure, but there’s something about these moments he loves just as much as the making out. That he can make his dumb remarks and Derek will huff out his amusement instead of sneering and resorting to wall slamming. It makes it more like a real relationship, somehow. Less likely that Stiles is trapped in an ideal world, _Supernatural_ -style, and is dreaming up his perfect boyfriend.

He sighs, long and (nearly) satisfied, and lets his head thunk back against the car window. “That was awesome,” he says. He nudges Derek’s thigh with his foot, “Orgasms would be even better, but this is awesome too.”

Derek glances away, trying to hide his smile as Stiles adds, “We should absolutely take the Camaro on a tour of every one of Beacon Hills’ make-out spots.”

The half-moon comes out from behind a cloud as he speaks, and that’s the only reason he sees it. Derek’s face is reflected in the window, and as Stiles finishes speaking the alpha’s expression freezes, drops for a moment into something so haunted, so fucking _hurt_ that Stiles can’t even breathe. Derek just looks- _hollowed out_.

Stiles can’t move. It’s barely a second, probably half a second in time, but his stomach drops like a stone and every part of his body tenses. “Derek?” he croaks out.

He turns his head and meets Stiles’ eyes. “Yeah?” he asks, and his face is completely normal, no sign of pain.

“No,” he says, straightening, “don’t do that. Something’s wrong. Tell me what I did.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine,” Derek lets a small frown appear on his face, adds a slight touch of confusion and it’s near-perfect, fuck him for his freaky ability to project stoic strength at all times because he’s lying to Stiles right now, right to his fucking _face_.

“No,” Stiles says harshly, “you’re not. Tell me the truth.”

“Stiles, I-”

“Don’t you _dare_ fucking lie to me right now,” Stiles grinds out, slamming his fist against the door. Maybe it’s the sudden crash to earth after an hour of erotic play, but he is so angry he’s shaking with it. “Maybe I don’t know much about what we’re doing here, but we’ve been way past lying to each other about shit for months, since way before all the touching started. We’re _pack_ , Derek, we’re _friends_. You tell me the fucking truth, Derek. Right now.”

There’s silence.

Then Derek sighs. “I just. It feels weird sometimes. Making out in a car all the time, or sneaking into your room when your Dad’s on night shift.”

Something tickles at the back of Stiles’ mind but before he can figure it out Derek is talking again.

“It’s no big deal. This is normal teenage stuff, Stiles,” Derek says, sounding so reasonable Stiles wants to scream. “It’s just-” he hesitates for a long time before Stiles catches his gaze and holds it. Then he says roughly, “I’m just not. Either of those things. And that’s not your fault.”

“Not either of those things,” Stiles repeats slowly. “Not a teenager, I get that. Okay. Why would you say you’re not normal?”

Derek shoots him a wry look.

“No, that’s bullshit,” Stiles says, “Almost my entire social circle is werewolves, and God knows that’s never gotten in the way of ‘normal’ human romantic activity. You’re as normal as-”

“Kate screwed me up,” Derek says flatly. “I’m not normal with relationships, and you know it. I always fuck it up.”

Stiles hands bunch into fists. “ _Bullshit_ ,” he says, “Just- that’s bullshit. I get that she scarred you, okay. I get that. But you are still _normal,_ Derek, don’t give yourself that kind of label. Don’t let her do that to you.”

“I think I would know better than-”

 _“Cesare,”_ Stiles says loudly, and wow, he did not think he was ever going to go there. It’s not like Derek’s the only one with issues.

“What?”

“Cesare. He was your one attempt at a relationship since Kate, right?”

Derek swallows and looks away, probably cursing Ezra right now.

“So. What happened there?” And he’s taking a serious risk now, but. _He asked about you_... Ezra had said, in that you-could-get-back-together kind of way.

Derek doesn’t answer for a long time. Then he sighs and says, “He cheated on me.”

Okay. _Burn in fucking hell, Cesare_ , Stiles thinks, like Derek needed _more_ reasons to fuel his trust issues.

“He cheated on you,” he repeats. “Which makes _him_ the douche.”

Derek shrugs. “He. Wasn’t out to his family. Very traditional. Italian. Said it would have killed his mother, so.”

Stiles frowns. “So.” He thinks it over and says slowly, “So, okay, so he dated women to keep his mother happy, and had you on the side? That’s what you’re saying?”

“So I found out,” Derek says, and shrugs. “Way too late.”

“So _he’s_ the fuckup,” Stiles says. “ _Not_ you.”

Derek shrugs. He’s no doubt having some kind of god-awful inner monologue there about how he wasn’t enough or whatever, but Stiles can’t fix everything in one night.

“Babe,” he says, and slides closer to Derek. “That’s a totally _normal_ human breakup.”

Derek turns toward him, just a little.

“Danny’s ex did the same thing to him, so I hear,” Stiles says. “Just people, being jerks. Making mistakes.”

Derek’s body is tense, hands fisted on his knees. Stiles rests a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not gonna happen to us. We’re not like that. We know each other, Derek. We trust each other. You’re a part of my life, and I’m a part of yours. No dirty little secrets.”

What happens next is a gut-punch Stiles totally deserves. “But I am,” Derek says, low. “A secret.”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “His _face_ ,” Stiles says, seeing it all over again. “Oh God, the way he _sounded_.” Stiles is a _terrible person_. He’s hurting someone who’s already carrying near-mortal wounds. Stiles is the _worst_.

 

 

Stiles makes the unlikeliest phone call of his entire life that night. And that includes the one time he had to call Danny - who’s number he should _not legally have had_ \- on the full moon, to find out if Jackson and Lydia were spending the night together or not. _Awk_ -ward.

“Peter,” he says, panicked. “I’m screwing it all up.”

“Stiles,” the wolf says, calm and slightly amused, “I’m sure you’re not-”

“I’m treating him just like Kate did,” he blurts, and that gets him the silence he deserves. Stiles winces. He closes his eyes and forces himself to say it. “We’re sneaking around, making out in the Camaro, my Dad doesn’t know we’re-”

“I see,” Peter says heavily. “Yes.”

“I’m hurting Derek and I’m screwing it all up, Peter, I _can’t screw this up_ -”

“Stiles, calm down. This is all fixable.”

“His _face_ ,” Stiles says, seeing it all over again. “Oh God, the way he _sounded_.” Stiles is a _terrible person_. He’s hurting someone who’s already carrying near-mortal wounds. Stiles is the _worst_.

“You know what you need to do,” Peter says, and Stiles hates it when people do that and are all aggressively right about his mistakes.

“Act like I’m not ashamed to be with him. Go out in public together-”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Peter says again, more firmly. “You know what you need to do.”

“Peter. I don’t know if I can do that,” Stiles says miserably.

“You can.”

“I _can’t_. Because how the hell can I explain _Derek_ without explaining _werewolves_? He’s so awesome, but you can’t tell that if you don’t know about the alpha stuff, what he’s done for the pack-”

“Just try,” Peter says. “You need to at least try. Because you’re right, Stiles. He can’t be your dirty little secret.”

 _“Fuck,”_ Stiles says.

 

 

 

The next night, he double-checks with Sharon at the station that his Dad will be home, and Stiles cooks his Mom’s meatloaf for dinner. He makes gravy, and mashed potatoes, and then a heap of green vegetables so that he’s not being completely obvious with the bribery.

He takes a deep breath and sends a text to Derek. _Telling Dad about us tonight. Prepare for undeserved traffic stops_.

Derek, of course, texts back _You don’t have to._

Jerk.

Stiles stares at the screen for a few minutes, then takes a deep breath and texts back _Yeah I do. And when I mess up like that you have to TELL ME_.

There’s a long wait then, like Derek is thinking hard about that one. Probably several variations of ‘you didn’t mess up’ or ‘not your fault’. Finally, he just replies _Ok_.

Not good enough.

 _I mean it_ , Stiles sends, fingers white where they press on the screen. _That stoic shit does not help._

 _Okay_. Derek sends. _I will._

_Promise me._

_I promise._

Stiles stares down at the screen for a long time. Somehow it’s easier to text it than to say it. _I don’t want to mess this up, but I can make mistakes just as easy as you._

_Even more easily, some would say._

Stiles snorts. Asshole. _We’re in this together, right?_

_Together. And I promise. Total truth from now on._

_Me too,_ Stiles replies _._ He can hear the cruiser pull up outside the house.

“Hey, Dad,” he calls as the front door opens.

“Stiles,” comes the reply. “Something smells good.” The door closes again and then there’s a series of clattering noises from the entryway that don’t bode well for the general tidiness of that area. More unsolved files, probably, Stiles thinks, and pulls the meatloaf out of the oven. He can hear his Dad cursing softly, more indeterminate noises and mutterings.

He grabs his phone again and types out, _Dad’s home._ _In the spirit of total honesty, I should tell you I’m crapping myself_ _right now_ and slips his phone into his pocket, set to silent. He finishes setting out the food and glances up when footsteps reach the kitchen.

Dad raises an ironic eyebrow when he walks in to see the table already set. “More detentions?” he drapes his jacket over the back of his chair.

“No,” Stiles scowls, “Jeez, where’s the- love,” he can’t say _trust_ , god fucking damn it he can’t make jokes about trust ever again. And why is that? Because he’s such a _liar_. Stiles lets out a long slow breath. He’s going to start fixing this, wasn’t that the whole point?

“Mashed potatoes _and_ gravy? You set fire to something important and uninsured?” his Dad asks, eyebrows up.

“I am trying this thing they call _compromise_ ,” Stiles says, and points. “You get your mashed potatoes and gravy, as long as you _also_ eat your kale.”

“I thought the reverse parenting thing wasn’t supposed to happen until well after I retire,” his Dad says, grinning as he washes his hands in the kitchen sink. He looks so damn happy just to be sharing a simple meal with Stiles, which is something else to pile on top of all the existing, werewolf-related guilt.

So they sit down together at the table, and Stiles starts working his way through his dinner, really not sure how to start the conversation. There’s so many ways to screw it up. Damn it. He gets up from the table to retrieve the milk from the fridge and pours two glasses, manages to respond to his Dad’s light conversational forays into the upcoming softball game against the Sheriff’s department in Hagersley, the roadworks on main street that are turning lunch time parking into a warzone, and the stupid new surveillance equipment he can’t get the hang of yet, what’s wrong with the system they already have, anyway?

“You okay, son?”

“What?” Stiles glances up. “Uh, yeah, Dad, I mean. Um.”

His father leans back from the table and sighs. There’s a bit too much of the _knowingness_ in the look Dad levels at Stiles. “Spit it out, kid.”

Stiles breath leaves his lungs in a rush. “Okay. Yeah. So. I, uh. Did have something I wanted to- nothing bad,” he adds hastily, watching his Dad’s hand tense into a fist. “I, um. You remember that painfully awkward talk we had last year, the one where I might not be exclusively about the ladies?”

His Dad blinks. He’d clearly been expecting some kind of school-or-property-damage type of confession. “Yeah, of course.”

“So, I, um, met someone.” He swallows, “I mean, I’m seeing someone.”

Which is, of course, when his Dad’s phone rings.

He picks it up automatically, of course. When he looks at the screen he grimaces, shoots an apologetic look across the table. “Dispatch,” he says helplessly.

Stiles waves a hand in permission and sighs ruefully, “Go ahead.”

“When I get home, okay?” he says over the ringtone, pushing back from the table. “I want to hear about this guy.”

 _Oh yeah, you definitely do_ , Stiles thinks, and lets all the air out of his lungs on a sigh.

“Thanks for dinner, kid,” his Dad says, and puts the phone to his ear. “Sharon?” Stiles watches his father’s face, sees the set of his jaw and the way his eyes get real focused. Whatever it is, it’s not minor. There goes the big confession.

Stiles retrieves the saran wrap and covers Dad’s plate. He glances up when the call ends and raises an eyebrow.

“Fire at the hospital,” his Dad throws out, grabbing his jacket. “Don’t wait up.”

“Shit,” Stiles says. “Be careful.”

Then he’s left standing in the kitchen, staring at the remains of their meal and thinking, _well, at least this is one call-out that’s not related to the pack_.

Stiles takes his victories where he can, nowadays.

The phone in his pocket buzzes and he smiles softly to himself. Okay. So this attempt didn't work out. He'll get another chance. And in the meantime, there's the distinct possiblity that he made the horrible mistake of leaving his bedroom window unlocked. He should _really_ go and check that out.

 

 

 


End file.
